


Splice

by unerv



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, College Student Rey (Star Wars), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Professor Ben Solo, Sexual Content, Swearing, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Author Regrets Nothing, Underage Drinking, Wuthering Heights References, coffee shop AU, english lit professor ben solo is my kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15534183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unerv/pseuds/unerv
Summary: Rey is a sophomore at a small liberal arts college in New York City and living in her grandfather's apartment on the Upper East Side. She has great friends and a fun job at a funky coffee shop. After a childhood of abandonment and disappointment, things are finally looking up. She's doing well in school, double-majoring in Business and Engineering, and even an unfortunate elective can't get her spirits down—18th Century Gothic Literature isn't exactly her cup of tea, but it's the only English class that will fit in her schedule. Everyone says Professor Solo is a pretentious asshole, but how bad can it really be?





	1. Sex and the City

**Author's Note:**

> Splice, v. — to join together or unite (two ropes or parts of a rope) by the interweaving strands

It’s Friday night. Everyone’s already back in the city for school to start next week, but with all her friends coupled up and headed to a play in Brooklyn, Rey’s decided to bow out of her usual role as the third wheel and stay in for the evening. With nothing better to do, she’s camped out on the sofa watching 90’s TV reruns and swiping through Tinder during commercials breaks. She downloaded the dating app on impulse, not because she’s looking for anyone, exactly, but more out of morbid curiosity. However, all she’s gotten from it is an inbox full of dick pics and a raging headache.

Tossing her phone on the cushion beside her, Rey pops a chip in her mouth as Mr. Big confesses his love for Carrie on-screen. She sighs. So maybe she isn’t looking for anyone, but it’s just—she’s lonely. It’s ridiculous and infuriating to feel such a way in a city with eight million people, but there she is. Alone. It turns out that the feeling doesn’t get any less painful with age.

Rey huffs, glaring at the television as Carrie and Big embrace, taking a sip of Diet Coke to wash down the envy crawling up her throat. The ice cubes clink around the glass as she sets in back down on the coffee table, unfolding her legs and pushing herself up from the sofa. In the kitchen, bare feet padding across the pristine white tiles, Rey makes her way to the fridge and bends down to dig around the freezer.

“No ice cream?” The words spill out of her mouth in disbelief.

She’s sure she’d bought some at the grocery store. Her grandfather had been home, a rare occurrence, that previous weekend to take her out to dinner to celebrate the beginning of her sophomore year before jetting back off to study the native population of Guatemala. Is it possible that the eccentric anthropologist had eaten her pint of Chunky Monkey? A quick look in the bin confirms her theory. Still, she can’t muster up any irritation at the inconvenience; Obi-Wan’s quirks are nothing compared to Unkar Plutt’s cruelty.

The reminder of the harsh man that raised her sends a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the cold air coming from the freezer.

Rey stands up with a sigh, looking at the clock on the wall. She can hear the swell of romantic music coming from the TV in the living room and grits her teeth. She looks down at herself, the thin oversized shirt and black yoga pants, shrugs and grabs her wallet before heading out the door. There’s a Baskin-Robbins shop a few blocks away, and she’s not sure when it closes, but New York City is, after all, the city that never sleeps and Rey absolutely refuses to go to sleep without ice cream.

Her sneakers squeak over the marble floors, and she nods at the doorman as he grabs the handle and holds one of the glass double-doors open for her. After two years of living with her grandfather, she’s still not used to people doing things for her. Before the maid comes on Tuesdays and Thursday, Rey makes sure to always make her own bed and do all her laundry. The old Hungarian woman clucks her tongue, reminds her that she doesn’t have to do all that, but Rey can’t help it; before Obi-Wan Kenobi had tracked her down, she’d been living in Plutt’s foster home, sleeping in what was practically a closet and working all day at his auto-repair shop in East London. She’d had no idea that she had relatives out there, nevermind ones that were trying to find her, and now she’s here, and it all seems like a dream.

But still, she can’t shake the feeling that she doesn’t belong.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Rey ducks her head and hurries along the sidewalk. She’s so distracted by her own thoughts, trying desperately to avoid getting tangled with the dog walker in front of her, that she doesn’t see the businessman talking on his phone and walking straight toward her. It’s not the first time she’s gotten bumped on the street, but the man is as oblivious to her presence as she is to his, and they crash together in a flail of limbs.

Rey yelps as she hits the pavement, scraping her elbow in a dizzying attempt to keep her head from hitting the sidewalk. The balding man shoots her a nasty look as he hastily stands up, brushing off his suit before resuming his phone conversation as if nothing even happened. She blinks, watches him walk away in mute shock.

Heaving herself to her feet, Rey cradles her injured arm to her chest and gives the retreating businessman the middle finger. She gets a few wary looks from the surrounding strangers that are passing by, and she sighs. God, can she get any more pathetic? Out at ten o’clock at night getting ice cream, and now she’s been tackled by some Wall Street asshole. Glancing rapidly down at her feet, Rey clenches her jaw. Great—her wallet is gone. Can this day get any worse?

She gets her answer rather quickly; a few seconds later as she’s still looking for her wallet, the grey clouds above rumble and roar, and the rain starts.

Swearing violently, Rey backs up to stand under the awning of the bar she’s found herself in front of, almost tripping over the flowerpots. There are some people sitting near the windows, and she hopes they hadn’t seen her embarrassing collision earlier.

“You comin’ in, honey?” the bouncer asks in a slick Southern accent. She hadn’t noticed him guarding the doorway.

She tucks her damp hair behind her ears. “Well—I’m—I just lost my wallet…”

“Yeah, I saw you fall over there. You alright?”

Rey carefully extends her left arm, moving it around. It hurts, but nothing’s broken. “Just a bruise and some scraps. I’m okay.”

“Wanna come in and get dried off?”

Rey is only nineteen, and even if she did have a proper ID, it would be with her lost wallet. But the bouncer guy is eyeing her breasts through her wet shirt and doesn’t seem to be very concerned with her age.

Soaked and miserable and bleeding a little from the cut on her elbow, Rey crosses her arms over her chest and shrugs, eyeing the door to the bar. “Maybe just for a minute.”

Inside, it’s crowded, murky with cigarette smoke, bursts of laughter rising above the din. Passing a group of loud and drunk patrons watching the baseball game from the flat-screen TV, she settles on an empty stool at the end of the bar. The middle-aged couple next to her collects their things and prepares to leave, and when they stand up, Rey is suddenly aware of a man sitting alone two seats over.

Even under the low lighting, he’s striking—tall, dark-haired, clad in an expensive knitted sweater and grey trousers, reading a faded paperback copy of Wuthering Heights. He doesn’t seem to belong among the haze and disorder, standing out from the others, calling to her like a beacon. Next, several things happen all at once; on the TV, the Yankees score a home-run and the room erupts in cheer, and the man she’s been admiring looks up, not at the screen or the shouting frat boys but right at her, _right at her_ —

Rey grips the sticky edge of the bar to steady herself. She holds his gaze with more confidence than she feels and is surprised when he doesn’t look away. Instead, his dark eyes flick over her face, then over her wet clothes, and Rey forgets to feel insecure about her drowned appearance, her wrinkled gym attire, her lack of wallet or keys or dignity—she smiles at him. The corner of his mouth curves up in response, and she watches in fascination as the man slowly unfolds his long legs and stands, taking his book and glass of amber liquid with him as he approaches her. He sits on the stool next to her. Rey’s heart pounds in her chest so loud that she’s sure he can hear it.

“You’re bleeding a bit,” he says, gesturing to her elbow. “Did you know that?”

She clears her throat, cheeks blooming red. “Oh, uh...yes. Had sort of a scuffle outside. Long story. But now my elbow’s scraped and my wallet is gone and...yeah.”

The man nods. “Ah, New York. They don’t tell you about the crime rate in the tourist pamphlets.”

Rey laughs, shrugs, leans a little bit closer to him. He smells good, cinnamon and spice and sin, and he radiates warmth. He’s taller than he’d looked from a distance, too; she has to tilt her head to look up at him. She licks her lips, and his eyes darken.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She pauses, picking at the chipped blue nail polish on her thumb. One drink wouldn’t hurt, right? She’s underage (in America, anyway) but she’s no stranger to alcohol. And besides, she’s just waiting for the storm to pass before she goes home. Home to her lonely apartment and empty bed, alone, alone, _alone_ —what’s the rush to get back to that?

“Sure. I’m Rey, by the way…and whatever you’re having is fine,” she replies.

As he orders whiskey for her and another glass for himself, Rey picks up his book and runs her finger over the crinkled cover. She’s just ordered her book list from Amazon, and Wuthering Heights is one of the required readings for her Gothic Lit class. Curiously, she flips it open to the first page. The title is there, along with the author’s name and the publisher, and then at the bottom in elegant, sloped cursive— _Property of: Kylo Ren_.

“Ever read it?”

She jolts, blinking up at him. Rey sets the book back where he’d put it on the bar, opens her mouth to apologize, but he’s smiling at her. Her stomach flutters.

“I’m going to,” she says and leaves it at that.

“It’s one of my favorites,” the man—Kylo Ren—says.

She’s so caught up in his eyes that she barely hears what he’s said, and is saved from the awkwardness by two glass being pushed to them by the mustached bartender. The brown liquid burns down her throat as she takes a gulp to quench her thirst.

“Do you live nearby?”

“Yes,” she responds. “A few blocks away. I was just on my way to get ice cream when it started raining.”

Too late, she realizes how lame that sounds. Rey sighs, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. Why is she acting like this? She’s never this weird, this nervous to talk to someone.

“And then you got robbed?”

“Uh, I’m not really sure. I was walking along and some asshole ran into me. I fell and he fell and my wallet fell, and by the time I got back up my stuff was gone. And so I came in here for a few minutes to get dried off,” she rambles, glancing up at him.

Kylo chuckles, a deep and soothing sound that vibrates around them. His warm fingers touch the back of her hand where it’s rested on the wooden edge of the bar.

“Lucky me.”

Oh, she realizes, he’s flirting with her. The thought hits her like a bolt of lightning. And she likes it, likes the way he’s looking at her, the fire in his eyes.

“Lucky you,” she says, breathless.

She has no idea what she’s doing; Rey’s only had one boyfriend before, and the experience was mediocre at best. She has no idea how to properly flirt, has had no real desire to capture male attention until now. Because she’s never felt like this before, this pull to someone, and Rey wants—

“Me either,” Kylo says softly, and she feels dizzy.

Oops...had she said some of that out loud?

Rey swallows thickly, standing up on wobbly legs. “Will you walk me home?”

He looks a bit shocked, frozen in place, and for a moment she’s terrified that she’s calculated this all wrong...but then Kylo hastily gets to his feet, slaps a twenty dollar bill by their drinks, and takes her hand. His fingers are long and pale nestled between her small, tan ones. The sight sends a thrill through her belly.

They run through the rain. Though there’s a knot of anxiety in her chest, she feels lighter than air as they dash across the wet street toward her building.

She doesn’t think about what the doorman thinks when she asks him for the spare key to her grandfather’s apartment; she doesn’t think about what her neighbors think as she drips water on the marble floors of the elevator; she doesn’t think about what the maid will think as she makes wet footprints on the carpet of the foyer of the apartment—nothing matters except for the heat of Kylo’s palm sliding against hers, the way he keeps looking down at her like he’s afraid she’ll vanish, the way he pushes her up against the door when they’re inside and finally alone.

Rey expects him to kiss her, but he merely rests his forehead against hers. They’re both breathing heavily, and it sounds like animal noises in the dark.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers roughly, sending a puff of hot air across her cheeks.

Rey whimpers, wiggles so she’s straddling one of his legs and grinds against him. The bulge in his jeans digs into her inner thigh as he thrusts his hips to her. The door rattles and Kylo groans, his hands tight around her waist.

Rey’s mind is so scrambled she can barely think straight, but she manages to say, “N-not here. Bedroom...over there...down the hall...second door.”

She yelps when Kylo picks her up, legs instinctually wrapping themselves around his waist. He carries her through the door and throws her onto the bed where she bounces, sprawled out on her floral comforter while the man before her fists the hem of his red sweater. She sucks in a sharp breath as he tugs the garment over his head. Rey watches him undress hungrily, heat pooling low in her gut as she appreciates the way his muscles shift and ripple with the movements. He seems impossibly huge in her small bedroom, practically towering over her.

When he looks back at her, his eyes are dark and desperate.

“Off,” he commands, voice rough, grabbing her leg.

Rey obeys quickly. Sitting up on the bed, she pulls her yoga pants off, and then her damp white t-shirt and her underwear, and then she’s bare before him (she is so, so glad she shaved that morning). They’re both fully naked when he kisses her. He consumes her all at once, gentle but firm, his tongue in her mouth, teeth biting her bottom lip, and Rey’s head spins.

She shoves the blankets down, pulling Kylo on top of her. Her breasts are pressed against his chest, the flamed flesh of their torsos, their hips aligned. Rey feels his cock against her thigh and shudders—God, they’ve barely done anything but she’s so wet for him…

Rey rocks against him, breathing ragged and uneven, arching into him as he cups her breast, flicking the hardened nipple.

“You feel so good. P-please,” she murmurs into his mouth, legs locking around his waist.

Nipping at her collarbone, he turns his head to look at her. He shifts so that they’re at eye-level, faces so close that their lips almost touch. There’s heat in his eyes, and awe like he can barely believe she’s real.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

She wants to lock the door and never let him leave. But instead, she just whispers, “You.”

Something wild comes over his face, and her breath gets caught in her throat as he lifts her hips. Rey feels the tip of his cock, hard and thick, at her entrance. She’s aching, craving for him to fill her up, but Kylo takes his time entering her. She hears him exhale deeply, pushing into her slowly.

She’s not a virgin, but it’s been a long time, and the cry that spills from her lips when he thrusts into her to the hilt is one of both pleasure and pain.

“So tight, shit—yes, wet and warm and wonderful— _Rey_.”

It’s the first time he’s said her name, and it makes her lose her mind.

As they begin to move together, the slap of their hips is loud and obscene, and only serves to turn her on more. He kisses her, his right hand coming down between their joined bodies to rub at her clit. She digs her fingernails into his broad back, clawing at his skin as he pounds into her. His grunts are urgent, mingling with her faint wails of delight, as he positions her legs higher and hits some unknowable spot deep inside her.

Rey whispers his name, over and over, stares him straight in the eye as she falls apart.

* * *

The next morning, Kylo is gone, but his copy of Wuthering Heights is sitting on her bedside table with a phone number scrawled on the inside cover.


	2. II: First Day of Class

“I had the best sex of my life last night,” Rey tells Rose.

It’s Saturday afternoon and they’re at a trendy salad place on 5th Avenue, squeezed into a tiny table in the corner beside a group of girls dressed head-to-toe in Lululemon and on their way to Soulcycle. Rey cringes as the perky high-schoolers at the neighboring table cackle about something. Ducking her head so that her hair blocks them from view, Rey stabs at a slice of apple in her bowl.

“No wonder you didn’t want to come to the play with me and Finn.”

“It wasn’t planned!” Rey rushes to explain, face flushing red. At the curious looks from the surrounding customers, she lowers her voice. “It kind of just...happened.”

“So. Great, random sex; not seeing the problem. What’s with the frown, huh?” Rose prods, gesturing for her to elaborate. “You should be all glowy, but instead you’re all frowny.”

“It’s just—I never do one-night stands. I feel weird,” Rey admits, biting her lip as she twirls her fork between her thumb and index finger.

“Well, who says it needs to be a one-time thing? Do you think you might like him?”

“I dunno. Maybe? But he snuck out the next morning while I was asleep, so that pretty much shows his intentions.”

“Well, maybe he just didn’t want to wake you? Did he leave a note?”

“He left a book. With his number written in it.”

Rose gives her a knowing look, crunching on a large bite of lettuce. “That means he wants you to call.”

“It does?”

“Totally!” 

Rey fiddles with her necklace, biting her lip. “If he wants to get together again, if he likes me, then why did he bolt in the middle of the night?”

“Men are a mystery, honey. I tell Finn every day to stop leaving his wet towels on the bathroom floor, but does he ever listen? No,” Rose rolls her eyes, but a smile pulls at her lips.

Rey can’t help but grin too. Rose and Finn have been inseparable since meeting freshman year at a dorm party, and though she is so happy for her best friends, she longs for that type of relationship. For intimacy, for someone to hold her hand as they walk down the street, for someone to rub her back when she has a nightmare. Unbidden, thoughts of dark eyes and pale fingers running through her hair pop into her head.

She snaps back to reality when she realizes Rose is asking her a question.

“Huh?”

After taking a swig from her plastic water bottle, Rose smirks. “You just got a really dreamy look on your face. Does your man from last night have a name?”

“Kylo Ren.”

Rose blinks. “Uh?”

“I know, weird right? It must be a nickname or something.”

“Is he our age?”

Rey shrugs, chewing a chunk of cheese. “Older. Don’t know exactly.”

“Ah. So less with the talking and more with the fu—”

Rey whacks her friend on the arm before she can finish that particular mortifying sentence. One of the Lululemon girls tosses them an annoyed look, and Rey and Rose dissolve into quiet giggles.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rose apologizes, fixing her messy bun. “You don’t have to give me details. But he was hot, right?”

“Very. In sort of an unconventional way, but somehow that made him more attractive. He just...stood out to me. There was something about him; I couldn’t look away. And God, you should see him without his shirt on…”

“So you’re going to call him, right? Rey, I haven’t seen you this excited about a guy in... _ever._ ”

She scuffs her sneakers against the ground, watching the girls at the neighboring table get up and walk out the door into the sweltering August heat. “Maybe. I have to figure out what to say first.”

“Hmm,” Rose replies. “Well, either way, I have a feeling that you’ll see him again.”

She’s right, as always.

* * *

 

It’s Monday morning, and Rey’s sitting in the back row of her Gothic Literature class. She’s double-majoring in Business and Engineering but she needs an English credit this semester, and this is the only literature class that will fit into her schedule. Unfortunately, it’s at nine in the morning. Rey is not a morning person. Usually, on the first day of school, she’d wear a nice blouse and do her makeup, but today she’d barely had time to put on some mascara. Yawning, dressed in a comfy sweatshirt and gym shorts, Rey slouches against the wall. When she had slid into her seat a few minutes ago, she’d been the last to arrive. All the other students were already there, chatting away, looking bright and awake and way too cheerful.

She looks at the clock on the wall. One minute until nine and the teacher still isn’t here. How long do they have to wait until leaving? What’s the rule—is there even a rule about that? Rey closes her eyes, ready to catch up on some sleep when the classroom door opens.

At exactly nine o’clock, Professor Ben Solo walks into the small lecture room, and Rey’s heart stops beating.

“Welcome to English 235. This is 18th Century Gothic Literature with Solo; if you’re in the wrong place, please correct your error as soon as possible. I only have printed syllabuses for the names on my list. If you’re planning to sign up for this class but are not currently, go down to the registrar’s office and she’ll assist you with your schedule.”

He rattles off the speech with practiced ease, settling into the desk at the front of the room. His hair is tamer than she remembers, glasses perched on his nose. Out of the faded leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he pulls a stack of papers, his laptop, and a water bottle. He looks up then, taking in the room for the first time, and Rey knows the exact moment he recognizes her.

She feels ready to faint when his dark eyes lock with hers, and his graceful movements jerk to a stop. His lips twitch, eyes roaming over her face.

“We’re going to begin with Wuthering Heights,” Kylo Ren, no—Ben Solo, her _professor_ , says.

Rey wants to die.

* * *

 

Later, when Rey is in the midst of a major freak-out, Rose giggles, and replies, “Well at least now you know his real name.”

“It’s not funny!” Rey hisses, fidgeting with her green apron. 

Even so, she feels better after venting to her friend about the news that’s been boiling in her all day. It isn't really something that she could discuss over text, and so the details of her morning class had festered, keeping her from focusing in any of her other classes. Even her favorite engineering class was a blur.

Now, after unloading on Rose as they attempt to make some complicated Frappuccino order, Rey’s relieved to share her nightmare with someone else. However, the look Rose is giving her is not one of sympathy; rather, the quirk of her mouth relays the desire to laugh again.

“It’s not funny!” Rey insists for the second time, putting the lid on the coffee she’s just finished.

She delivers the completed orders to the counter and calls out the correlating names.

“Right,” Rose says, as she goes to the register to take another order. “So let me get this straight; Kylo Ren, the guy who gave you four orgasms last Friday, is also somehow Ben Solo, your English professor and one of the most disliked people on campus. Seriously, tell me what part of that isn’t funny.”

Rey scowls, waits for Rose to deal with the newest customer. The small coffee shop is unusually busy for the time of day, and Rey really wishes all the caffeine-addicted soccer moms would leave for a while so she could have some much needed best friend time. There was no way she was going to embarrass herself and tell Finn about what’s happened, so Rose was Rey’s only hope in figuring this all out. Her head was still spinning; she had no idea what to do about the awkward academic situation she’s just found herself in. How could she possibly show up to class on Wednesday, look Ben Solo in the eye, and not die of shame?

“I have to switch classes,” Rey announces as Rose returns.

They’re far enough behind the counter and over by the coffee machines that the red-head lingering at the register probably can’t hear, but Rey keeps her voice low just in case. After all, you never know who you’re going to run into in the city.

“Wouldn’t that be more awkward? And isn’t this the only English class that’ll fit in your schedule?”

Rey huffs, lifting her hair off the back of her neck. It’s distractingly hot out today, and the coffee shop’s broken AC isn’t helping her focus at all. Their black uniforms are atrocious too, drawing the sun’s hot rays from the big windows out front, the heat only adding to her addled state. She groans, going over to open the freezer to stick her red cheeks against an ice pack. The two pre-teen girls waiting to order give her strange looks, but she is past caring. Rose picks up the slack for a while, helping those in line to order and making the drinks, giving Rey a moment to breathe.

“Can you heat up a scone for that guy with the mustache?” Rose nudges her, and she nods mutely.

“I just can’t believe he’s my teacher,” Rey mutters, shoveling the blueberry scone into the microwave.

Rose nods as she fetches the whipped cream can from the fridge. “Life is weird,” she responds wisely.

“It’s so embarrassing. Rose, when he came in the room this morning, I wanted to melt into the floor. It was awful. And besides awkward eye-contact at the beginning of class, he seemed totally fine. Calm, cool, collected. Meanwhile, I was basically having a panic attack,” Rey continues dramatically, tossing the warm scone onto a chipped plate and handing it to the waiting patron.

“Maybe he didn’t realize it was you! You could be blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”

Rey pours hot coffee into a to-go cup and shrugs hesitantly. “Probably. I don’t know…”

There’s no one else at the register, the afternoon crowd thinning out and heading home. Rey and Rose wipe down the counter in silence. Rey’s thoughts are in a tangle when Rose interrupts the whirlwind by putting her small hand on Rey’s arm. Her eyes are warm and kind, devoid of any judgment.

“Are you more upset that you slept with your professor or that this means that you can’t sleep with him again?”

She swallows uncomfortably. “Which answer makes me less of a terrible person?”

Rose shrugs, and Rey groans, shoving her hands over her face.

“Let’s just...never talk about this again, okay? And don’t tell Finn. Or anyone.”

She can imagine the gossip and physically cringes.

“You’re just going to pretend it never happened?”

“Seems like that’s the only course of action, yeah? If Ky—Professor Solo can be calm, cool, and collected than so can I. As far as I’m concerned, I went out for ice cream on Friday, lost my wallet, and then came home. Alone.”

Rose arches an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she says, “Speaking of, did you find the wallet?”

“No. I think it’s gone forever,” she says, and therefore is more than a little surprised when the item in question appears in front of her eyes that evening outside her apartment.

Rey blinks at her pink Marc Jacobs wallet, then at the large, pale hand holding it to her and has to take a deep breath before she musters the courage to look up into his face.

“Professor Solo,” she murmurs.

She can barely wrap her head around it—why the hell is he standing outside her door?

“Miss Kenobi,” he says, and it sends goosebumps down her arms.

Rey pulls her bathrobe tighter around her body, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the fact she isn’t wearing a bra. He moves his hand a bit, reminding her of the wallet in his palm, and she takes the offering.

“How did you—”

“The doorman let me up.”

“No, my wallet…”

He clears his throat, shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a collared blue shirt and dark trousers; he looks so good it should be illegal.

“I went back to the bar to look for it on Saturday. It was right there in the flowerpot by the front door. You must have thrown it when you fell.”

“Oh,” she replies. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Please, you can call me Ben.”

His face is guarded like it had been in class, but as her arm moves and her lacy nightgown peeks out from the robe, his eyes flicker with... _something_. Heat. Desire.

Rey clutches the wallet to her chest, shifting in the doorway. “You could have left the wallet with the doorman downstairs.”

“Yes,” Ben admits calmly, “I could have.”

She doesn’t know what to do but knows she has to do something, anything, before she loses control and jumps his bones.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he continues, breaking through her inappropriate thoughts.

Behind him, the elevator dings, and, afraid of being caught with him, Rey grabs his massive bicep and pulls him inside. She shuts the door, turns to him.

He’s eyeing her warily, and she rushes to explain. “Neighbors.”

Ben nods, glances over the foyer, the blue walls and plush carpet and the vase of dying flowers on the small, decorative table.

“Look, Rey—”

She’s sure her face is as red as a tomato. She hunches her shoulders, gaze on the floor. “I know what you’re about to say...and I already know, okay? This never happened. Both of us could get in trouble and—”

“Actually I came for my book,” he interrupts.

“Oh.” Rey wants to punch herself in the face. “Of course,” she replies, running down the hall to get it.

“But everything you said is true,” he calls after her. “It was a mistake. Best mistake I ever—but a mistake nonetheless,” she hears him say as she reaches her room.

He says something else, but the word— _mistake, mistake, mistake_ —echoes around her head and she can hear nothing else. It cuts like a knife. The one man she’s ever truly been interested in, and he is tearing her apart. Why is he doing this to her, showing up randomly, torturing her? Couldn’t he have ignored her in class, gotten another book, and left her the hell alone until December? She knows as well as he does that nothing else can happen, but did he have to erase the beauty of their time together? Does it mean nothing to him, while it means everything to her?

Rejection leaves a familiar, bitter taste in her mouth.

The book is right there on her desk, mocking her. Rey stares at it, turns around, and marches back down the hall.

“Can’t find it,” she lies. “I probably threw it out.”

His expression is unreadable. “Is that why you didn’t call?”

She clenches her jaw. They way she’d rehearsed potential conversations with him all weekend seems laughable now. She feels like such a fool.

“I was busy,” Rey replies, and she hopes it hurts him the way he’s hurt her. 

If it does, Ben’s face doesn’t show it. He’s frowning, eyeing her like a wild animal that might bite him, and she hates it. She hates this, hates him for coming into her life and turning everything upside down. She hates the way that she wants to touch him, how if he kisses her right now she would, without hesitation, risk both their academic careers just to be close to him one more time.

“Please,” Rey whispers, “just go.”

This time, unlike Friday, she gets to watch him walk away and it’s much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter! I know this trope has been done a million times before but I just had to do my own version of it, and I'm glad people are enjoying it.


	3. III: Limbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) this chapter is kind of short. It’s sort of filler stuff, hope it’s not too boring. Just know that shit Goes Down in the next chap ;)
> 
> 2) don’t do drugs, kids. Or drink underage. Or, like, anything in this story. okay bye.

Rey is drunk. Slightly. 

She trips on the upturned edge of a rug, shoulder bouncing off the grimy beige wall of the fraternity house as she follows Finn and Rose down the hall, passing a group of boys in soccer jerseys doing lines of coke in the bathroom. Her vision spins, blurs, splinters—

Alright. Rey is  _very_ drunk.

It’s only eight o’clock, but after a dangerous mixture of strawberry Jell-O shots and cans of cheap beer and a gulp of vodka from someone’s flask, Rey already feels the room tilt under her feet. It’s irresponsible, she knows that, for someone who barely ever drinks to get so out of control, but Finn and Rose are here, and it’s been a hellish week—she deserves this, she _needs_ it, to just forget for a few blissful moments the face that’s haunted her nightmares and her daydreams.

Ben Solo. Kylo Ren. She doesn’t even know what to call him anymore, not even in her own head. It’s infuriating, all of it. It’s been exactly a week since she met him that rainy Friday night. The days have passed slowly, his class an agonizing two hours every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She’s stuck to her plan of ignoring him, sitting in the back, keeping her head down. Apparently, he’s adopted a similar course of action; he never calls on her, doesn’t even look at her. It’s for the best, but it stings more than it should.

“I hate him,” Rey tells Rose as they enter the living room.

In this part of the house, the music is deafening. It thumps through her blood, rattling her bones, up and up and up her spine, clouding her head with a haze.

“Who?” Finn asks, flopping onto one of the ratty old couches and pulling Rose onto his lap.

The alcohol obliterates any memory of why talking about this is a bad idea. Rey sits beside her friends and says, “Be...uh, I mean, Professor Solo.”

Rose pinches Rey’s leg, shaking her head firmly. She squints, frowns at the smaller girl, opens her mouth to ask what’s wrong when a tall blonde sorority girl leans over the back of the couch into her space.

“I had Solo last semester. He’s such a fucking asshole,” the intruder announces over the music, flicking her shiny hair over her shoulder. Her cleavage spills out of her skimpy halter top. “He, like, totally failed me on one of the tests. I had to make it up, but he told me at the absolute last minute, so then I was literally running across campus in six-hundred-dollar velvet Manolo Blahnik pumps to—”

“He’s mean to everyone,” another girl, shorter and brunette, cuts in. Her acrylic nails are painted a startling shade of neon yellow. Her breath reeks of fruity rum, sickly sweet, and the smell makes Rey’s stomach heave.

“Sure,” says the blonde girl, “but I’d still sit on his face.”

Rey stands up quickly, doing her best not to stumble. She glares at the sorority girls, then tells Rose, “I need some air,” before bolting towards the nearest exit. The warm August heat assualts her pink cheeks, sends a drop of sweat down her neck. The city is always so hot this time of year, and Rey is suffocating. She wishes she could just run away, hail a taxi and jump on a plane and just _go_ , go anywhere or everywhere, run away from all this, from herself, from—

She sees the shape of him through the dark and knows it's him instantly. After reading Wuthering Heights all week, she can’t help but think that Ben looks like a gothic character with his dark scowl and billowing black coat.

Why the hell is he wearing a coat when it's so hot outside? Why is he on campus so late?

She watches him, fingers gripping the railing of the stairs that lead to the frat house, as he heads toward the faculty parking lot. He vanishes into the dusk, and Rey screams. The sound is frustrated and feral, a howl echoing up to the stars.

That night, at home, she thinks of him. In the brightness of her bathroom, Rey strips off her wrinkled shirt and jean shorts and her underwear, tosses them, along with her scuffed Converse sneakers, into the corner. Naked, she hurries into the shower and turns the knob to cold. The water cascades down her back, she shivers, and she imagines that it’s Ben’s fingers trailing down the notches in her spine, over the swell of her hips, the curve of her ass, to where she’s aching for him...

Rey groans, sliding down the side of the shower to sit on the marble tiles. She’s still intoxicated, delirious, curled up on the floor like a child, and suddenly she is blindingly angry.

“This has to stop,” she whispers to herself, voice rough with frustration. It’s loud in the quiet apartment.

Rey’s never been the type of girl to get so mixed up about a guy. Pining from afar, making herself miserable; that’s not her at all. She can’t keep on like this, lusting after her professor. Her _professor!_ It’s ludicrous. It’s insanity. It’s masochistic, the way she can’t stop thinking about him while clearly he’s forgotten all about her.

Why is she making herself suffer like this? 

* * *

 

**_Rey Kenobi_** _(11:15 am)_ : can i borrow that latex skirt from ur halloween costume last year? 

**_Rose Tico_ ** _(11:19 am)_ : the one that barely covers my ass??

**_Rey Kenobi_** _(11:20 am)_ : yea

**_Rose Tico_ ** _(11:22 am)_ : do i even wanna kno?

**_Rey Kenobi_** _(11:22 am)_ : probs not

 

* * *

 Over the weekend, Rey makes a decision.

On Monday, she wears the sluttiest skirt she can find (courtesy of Rose) and brings _his_ copy of Wuthering Heights to class. She sits in the front row, right across from his desk.

She wants him to suffer too. 

* * *

September arrives, but Summer keeps her claws hooked into New York City; the heat stays. It’s Tuesday, and although the lack of air conditioning makes the hair stick to the back of her neck, Rey’s in her favorite spot on the third floor of the university library. Where her white sundress has ridden up, her thighs stick to the seat of the cracked leather armchair as she shifts, bringing her book closer to her face to read the scribbles in the margins.

She traces her fingers over each letter, wondering over the angry scratches that are so reminiscent of his writing now and yet so different. _Kylo Ren_ was the name written to claim ownership, not Ben Solo. Who had he been back then, when he'd gone by another name? Who was he now?

With a sigh, Rey sets Wuthering Heights down onto the floor and stands, stretching her arms over her head. When her back gives a satisfying little pop, she shakes out her arms and walks over to the large windows. Some athletic club is playing frisbee on the lawn, a golden retriever wagging its tail as it chases the laughing teenagers through the grass. Rey smiles and turns away.

Inspired by the game outside, she heads over to her backpack to call her friends to find something fun to do, when she hears footsteps approach her study nook. Rey pauses, pushing her brown hair out of her face, kneeling with her cell phone in her hand. There’s hardly ever anyone up on the third floor, and so she waits for the footsteps to fade once someone realizes they’ve pressed the wrong button on the elevator, but the footsteps only get closer.

Mostly secluded by bookshelves, she’s hidden from his view until it’s too late.

Rey swallows and looks up into Ben Solo’s surprised face.

“Uh...hi?” she squeaks, sitting up straight when his eyes dip to her chest and she realizes how low the neckline of her sundress is.

She's just gotten used to seeing him in class; she's unprepared for any other sort of encounter. Rey madly thinks of something else to say, but her mind is blank. 

“Good afternoon,” he responds, face quickly schooled into an expression of cool indifference. His voice is even, dull, distant, like she’s just another one of his students, like she’s a stranger, like she’s _no one_ —

Rey feels like she might faint. Her behavior was supposed to be empowering, but after what she’d worn to his class yesterday, she can barely look him in the eye. She curls her fingers into fists, nails pressing deeply into the soft skin of her palms. Even after everything, she still feels pulled to him. 

With a nod, and what might have been a wince, Ben turns on the heel of his shoe, retreats, practically runs in the other direction.

She listens to the sound of his heavy footsteps until they disappear altogether.


End file.
